


Swan Rider

by aggiepuff



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dol Amroth Is Not Like the Rest of Gondor, Drama, F/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Warrior Princess, Warrior Queen Lothiriel, child character, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 15:17:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18663013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aggiepuff/pseuds/aggiepuff
Summary: Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, has finally relinquished her title of Trade Master to her sister-by-law. Left adrift in a world still healing from the Dark Times, she is ready to find a purpose in life beyond the walls of Dol Amroth and the borders of Belfalas. Does her future lie to the East?Éomer-king has been crowned for a year. Slowly but surely the Mark has been regaining its feet but he knows his Council is right when they insist he needs to find a wife and queen. A queen, many tell him, who hails from the far West.





	1. Chapter 1

****Éomer stared as cask after cask of ale and bale after bale of wheat was unloaded from the train of wagons that had arrived that morning from Gondor. Their arrival and their cargo were unexpected and Éomer was still having difficulty believing in their existence. They had brought with them enough food and ale to feed the whole of Elador for an entire month!

Beside him, Éomer’s Steward, Elfhelm, oversaw the careful storage of the provisions, a bemused smile quirking up the corners of his wide mouth. In his hand Elfhelm still held the missive that had accompanied the delivery: an accounting of the wagons’ contents as well as a short note written in Eowyn’s untidy hand.

“Tell me what Eowyn wrote again,” Éomer said, still unable to tear his deep blue eyes from the scene before him.

Elfhelm complied, holding the parchment at eye level and read:

 

_Dear Brother,_

_This is a portion of my Bridal Gift from Faramir’s cousins, the Princes and Princesses of Dol Amroth, who thought a personal gift was in order to welcome me to the family. As I cannot possibly find use for all of it, you may have this bit to do with as you wish._

_Love, Eowyn._

 

Elfhelm refolded the parchment and held it out to his king. Éomer took it without looking away from the bustle in the courtyard. Snapping it open with a flick of his wrist he reread the letter himself, including Eowyn’s postscript informing him of a second letter from his sister. Finally, Éomer muttered, “Surely this is too much. Prince Imrahil must have gone daft.”

Elfhelm cleared his throat. “I do not believe this is Prince Imrahil’s doing,” he said.

Éomer whirled on his friend. “Then who?” he demanded.

“Although it is just a theory, I believe, sire, this is the work of Prince Imrahil’s daughter, the Princess Lothíriel, possibly in concert with her brothers’ wives.”

Éomer frowned. He had never met Princess Lothíriel, though he had heard her father praise her greatly, Imrahil’s pride radiating from Éomer’s friend with every word. But that was pride of a father for a beloved daughter. Elfhelm, however, had met the princess when he had travelled to Minas Tirith on Éomer’s behalf to negotiate trade relations between Gondor and the Riddermark while Éomer himself saw to the security of their borders. Without turning his gaze, Éomer asked, “What is she like?”

“The Princess Lothíriel is very intelligent, sire, and rightly deserves all the praise her father gives her,” Elfhelm answered readily.

Éomer’s eyebrows rose. Coming from the old warrior, that was high praise indeed. Curiosity piqued, he gestured for his Chief Steward to continue.

Elfhelm settled his weight, as if preparing for a long talk. “As is the custom in Dol Amroth,” Elfhelm began, “Princess Lothíriel held the title Trade Master for a time, inheriting it from her mother when she died, though the princess was quite young. Now, as I understand it, the princess has passed the office on to her eldest brother’s wife, the Princess Mirínean.”

“Trade Master?” Éomer interrupted, having never heard such a title.

“It is a position unique to Dol Amroth, held by the eldest or ruling princess,” Elfhelm explained, understanding his king’s confusion. “To my understanding, it serves as a separation of power. Dol Amroth is a merchant-princedom so while the prince handles politics and legislature, the Trade Master acts as a mediator between the merchants, while also overseeing Dol Amroth’s finances.”

“And Princess Lothíriel?” Éomer prompted once Elfhelm fell silent.

Elfhelm stamped down a smile; this was the most interest Éomer-king had shown in any one woman since returning to the Mark. “Princess Lothíriel seemed quite self-possessed in our meetings this summer,” Elfhelm answered with a thoughtful tilt of his head. “It was to she whom Prince Imrahil looked for counsel in trade negotiations between our peoples and what goods could be spared to aide us through the coming winter. She was quite knowledgeable for one so young and yet aware that she did not know everything; she asked many questions about the culture and customs of Rohan. She seemed very keen on learning as much as she could.”

“But why do you believe this,” Éomer waved to half-unloaded wagons, “to be her doing?”

“This is the _exact_ amount the princess would not grant us during negotiations.”

Éomer scowled, frustration flaring in his chest. “Then why is she giving it to us now?” He had no patience for court games, he never had. What was this unknown Gondorian playing at?

“Again, sire, this is simply a theory, but, perhaps,” Elfhelm paused, licked his lips, “perhaps she refused us this amount in negotiations because, at the time, she worried it might take supplies away from the people of Dol Amroth. I heard tell from the Swan Knights who accompanied Prince Imrahil that the princess is very devoted to her people, and they to her. Perhaps she could not justify giving away things her people might need. But, now she knows better her people’s need and as this is a Bridal Gift to your sister...”

Éomer’s confusion had not lessened at Elfhelm’s calm words. If anything, it had turned to irritation at being unable to understand the nuances of what Elfhelm was attempting to tell him. “How is this any different?” he growled.

“The princess is being clever,” Elfhelm explained patiently, “as well as kind and generous. When first we negotiated this past summer she did not have a solid understanding of what goods her people could produce. She was forced to be conservative in her estimations of what could be spared. But now the harvest is in. She is assured of what Dol Amroth has, what they do not, and how much of what they have is surplus. And she remembered what Rohan asked for and could no longer justify withholding much needed supplies.” A sudden thought struck Elfhelm and the tiny smile at the corners of his mouth grew. “And she must know of the pride of the Riddermark, that we would not accept charity. This is a Bridal Gift to welcome your sister into their family, not a gift of State, and as such must have come from the princess’s own holdings. Perhaps it is a bit excessive by traditional standards,” Elfhelm admitted, “but being what it is, we cannot refuse.”

“But the wedding isn’t until Spring!” Éomer protested. “It is only just the end of Autumn!”

“True,” Elfhelm acquiesced, “but it is the time of harvest. Perhaps the princesses wanted to send their gift right away to ensure its arrival.”

Éomer grunted but could offer no further objection, not when the people of Edoras were gathered around the edges of the square, pointing and chattering excitedly at the sight of so much wheat and ale, their expressions ranging from joy to relief, hope burning brightly in their eyes. “Right,’ he sighed. “Well, just get it all in before dark, then.” Turning, he made to walk up the wide stone steps of Meduseld.

Elfhelm’s soft voice stopped him. “Sire, about the matter of your future queen...”

Éomer stiffened, his foot resting on the first stone stair, expression darkening. His counselors had been at him to find a wife almost since the moment he had set foot in Edoras once more. The need to secure the succession of the House of Eorl was imperative, Éomer knew that, he understood it, but he did not like it, especially the way they bickered over whether his nonexistent bride should hail from the Westmark or the East. It gave him headaches. “I do not want to discuss this matter now,” he growled, refusing to turn and look at Elfhelm.

“Of course, my King. I only wish to say that, should a woman of Gondor be considered, the first name to come to mind is the Princess Lothíriel’s. She would make a fine queen.”

Éomer grunted but did not say another word, continuing up the steps to the great carved doors of Meduseld, opened for him by an armored doorwarden. He strode through the cavernous hall, sidestepping the fire at the center of the room as he made his way toward the doorway on the back wall that lead to the private quarters of the royal family.

As he entered the quiet corridor, lit by brightly burning torches set in brass sconces along the stone wall, Éomer could not rid himself of Elfhelm’s voice inside his head. _If a woman of Gondor were considered, Princess Lothíriel’s name would be the first on the list_.

In his heart of hearts, Éomer knew he could not marry a woman of either the East- or Westmark. It would be a blatant show of favoritism, something Éomer could not afford so early in his reign. But a woman of Gondor?

The last Queen of the Riddermark hailing from Gondor had been his grandmother and she...well, while Morwen Steelshean had been an adequate queen, she had also openly detested everything Rohirric. As soon as her husband had died and her eldest son was named king she had departed the Riddermark, never to return, but leaving a sour taste in the people’s mouths. He could not see the Rohirrim accepting another queen from outside their own realm so soon.

It was a sticky situation and would need further consideration, Éomer decided and, not for the first time, wished it were Théodred sitting on the throne rather than him with a deep ache in his chest born of longing and grief dulled by time.


	2. Chapter 2

****Lothíriel reclined on her chaise in the seaside fortress of Dol Amroth, rubbing her temples with one long fingered hand. In the adjacent room the commanding tones of Gwendolyn, her chief lady’s maid, instructed several other maids in preparing Lothíriel’s bedchamber for the night. How Lothíriel wished they would hurry. The day had been long, very long. It had started before dawn and the hour now was long after dusk. She had a headache brought on by merchants arguing in the audience hall, their voices bouncing off the smooth marble floor and up into the high vaulted ceiling, echoing into a crescendo that brought a pounding to her head that refused to fade. Then, after a morning of receiving in the audience hall, the Guild Masters of the city had requested a meeting, a request Lothíriel had granted and sorely regretted the moment she stepped into the Trade Master’s office and realized why the Guild Masters had wished to see her. Each had brought their guild’s treasurer. Money. They had wanted to talk about money. Lothíriel hated talking about money with the Guild Masters and in that moment it had only served to worsen her headache.

Lothíriel tilted her head back with a tired sigh. So tired had she been she had not even wanted to go for her evening ride along the sheltered beach below the palace. Truly, the only bright side to her day had been that her sister-by-marriage had been forced to endure it with her. Mirínean, as Lothíriel’s eldest brother’s wife, had finally taken over the office of Trade Master from her, as was the tradition of Dol Amroth, and as such had been forced to endure the torture with her.

In the past, the position of Trade Master, given to the ruling or eldest Princess, had been a title with no true power or duties accompanying it. Princess Alvina, Lothíriel’s merchant’s daughter of a grandmother, had promptly changed that. The story was, on her first day as Trade Master, after having taken part in the week-long coronation and wedding celebrations, she had marched into the audience hall, thick silver Trader’s Crown gleaming on her dark brown hair, took her place on the heavy marble Trader’s Throne and glared the squabbling Guild Master’s into submission, not an ounce of weariness in her. Princess Alvina’s husband, Prince Adrahil II, had told the story with a proud gleam in his gray eyes until the day he died.  Lothíriel, still on her father’s knee and listening eagerly as the old man had cackled his way through the story, had decided she, too, would rule with an iron fist in a velvet glove—she just hadn’t expected to begin her reign at so tender an age as thirteen. But the Valar had not cared for the wishes of a child and took her mother regardless of Lothíriel’s plans. Thankfully, Lothíriel had Mirínean now. Dear, sweet Mirí, being of merchant stock herself, was more than capable of handling the Guild Masters and, indeed, seemed to take an almost vicious pleasure in cowing them. For this reason alone, Lothíriel was comfortable accepting her father’s request that she join him and her brothers in Minas Tirith.

Lothíriel gazed out of the open window at the dark sky, the stars glittering back at her like diamonds stitched in velvet.  In truth, she did not relish the prospect of mingling with the courtiers of Minas Tirith. Certainly not those who were her age, at least. She much preferred the company of the elder noble set. Many of them, especially the ladies, had married into their nobility, coming from wealthy, ergo influential, merchant families. It was they who Lothíriel most often sought when her presence was requested in Minas Tirith. The older, merchant-born nobles understood who truly held power in the realm and they had maintained their ties with the merchant class accordingly. And, for Lothíriel’s former position as Trade Master of Dol Amroth, they welcomed her with open arms. It was their company to which she looked forward with any sense of pleasure. But, if her father’s and brothers’ letters were to be believed, many of the esteemed ladies had withdrawn from Minas Tirith to return to and defend their own holdings during the Dark Times, thus robbing her of her preferred companions.

A father’s summons were a father’s summons, however. And yet…

Lothíriel retrieved the letter from the table at her side and read through it once more. Imrahil wrote that he understood the request she join him and the rest of her siblings was a bit sudden and that he did not expect her in any short order. Rather, he gave her a fortnight to prepare and another week to make the trip from Dol Amroth to the seat of Gondor.

Well, Lothíriel would hardly need two weeks. Gwendolyn, on the other hand—Lothíriel glanced to her bedchamber— Gwendolyn would most certainly need as much time as she could be given. Lothíriel’s beloved chief handmaiden had been with her since she was a child, had practically raised the princess after her mother succumbed to pneumonia. And she insisted her princess never be outdone by the peacocks at the Minas Tirith court - Gwendolyn’s words, not hers

Gwendolyn would demand as much time as could be afforded in order to prepare Lothíriel for any event the court might throw at her, and of course she would cajole Gilaen, her daughter and Lothíriel’s lady’s companion, into helping her. Not that convincing Gilaen would be particularly hard; she loved fashion and was forever informed on the latest trends.

That, however, could all be seen to without Lothíriel. Her presence was not required and, indeed, Gwendolyn had oft remarked in the midst of similar endeavors how Lothíriel’s participation was more hindrance than help. Surely Gwendolyn would not object should Lothíriel choose to depart the palace a little ahead of schedule, say, with the next merchant caravan bound for Minas Tirith?


	3. Chapter 3

****Éomer surveyed the crowded tent-tavern. Torches cast flickering yellow and orange light over the heavy wooden tables arranged in rows, barmaids and servers winding through them, dodging rowdy patrons beneath the canvas tent that had been erected by an enterprising man of Minas Tirith on the fairgrounds of Pelennor Field. It, and many other similar establishments mixed with merchant’s stalls, had seemed to spring up overnight in preparation for the celebrations of the king’s coronation.

By rights, as the king of Rohan, Éomer could have supped in the palace, feasting on the finest food Gondor’s cooks had to offer with delicacies from as far away as Quenya, but he had exceeded his tolerance of fussy nobles for the day, probably for his whole life, and craved the simple comfort of common people and common food—if he could find a seat.

He was just giving up hope, preparing to try his luck at the next tent-tavern, when bodies shifted and he saw, in a far corner, an empty seat at a table occupied by a handful of hardy looking men and women, the white swan on a blue shield of Dol Amroth sewn onto the shoulders of their tunics. Well, if he could not sup with his friend’s people, who could he sup with?

Éomer, though a large figure, found it quite easy to wind his way to the folk from Dol Amroth, the table and benches having been set far enough apart to ease his passage. Upon reaching them he gave them a friendly smile. “If I might join you, friends?”

The group looked up, eyeing him curiously. He had chosen to dress simply in a linen shirt, jerkin, loose breeches and leather boots, only a sword and dagger hung at his waist. The only symbol of his office he had retained was the signet ring of Rohan’s king, unlikely to be seen in the shadowy light of the tent-tavern. One by one the Dol Amroth travelers looked him up and down then turned to the young woman sitting in the middle of the bench on his left, her back to the tent wall. Éomer followed their gaze, silently plying his question to her; clearly she was the leader, not the grizzled warrior beside her as Éomer first assumed.

The young woman was lovely, olive skinned and slightly freckled, her head crowned by raven hair that glinted red and gold in the torchlight. He could not see the exact shade of her eyes though he thought they might be green or blue. As he examined her someone moved behind him and a brief shaft of light threw the lower half of her face into sharp relief. Éomer blinked. Twin scars, white, parallel lines like claw marks, ran diagonally across her left cheek from nose to jaw. They were obviously long-healed, with no inflammation, the skin around them smooth. In truth, Éomer should have known the woman was a warrior from her dress: simple linen shirt, long brown leather jerkin buttoned across her chest and breeches buckled tight at her waist by a thick belt, the indent of absent weapons visible in the leather. The scars were only confirmation; the marks of a warg attack if ever he saw one.

The woman eyed him a moment longer, then nodded. The closest guard on his right shifted slightly over and Éomer accepted her silent offer, settling onto the bench. A moment later a barmaid appeared behind him and, at his request, set a tankard of ale in front of him then left to fetch his meal.

“You are of Dol Amroth?” Éomer inquired conversationally once the server had gone.  

“Aye,” said the guardsman on the far side of the young woman. “Newly ‘rived this mornin’ wi’ the merchants.” He motioned to the middle aged guard across from him. “This be Alain, Carling”—Éomer’s neighbor—“Duilan,”—the grizzled warrior across from Éomer—“I’m Evrain,” and, turning the their young captain with all the air of one introducing a Truly Important Person, said, “and this is-”

“Thíri,” she interrupted, casting her folk warning looks. “My name is Thíri.”

Éomer frowned. The way Thíri said her name, it did not sound natural. Before he could ask, however, he was stopped by a server appearing at his side. She deposited his steaming dinner before him then waited as he pulled his belt purse from an inside pocket and handed over the proper coins, giving her a healthy tip as well. So thoroughly had she and the arrival of his meal distracted him that, by the time she had gone again, Éomer found he had quite lost his question. Instead, swallowing his first bite of dinner, Éomer commented idly, “I had not heard of the arrival of another contingent from  Dol Amroth.”

Alain shrugged, a smirk in the corner of his mouth. “We like to keep these northerners guessin’.”

“And what news do you bring from the South?”

“Corsairs all but gone from the coast,” Carling answered. “Navy beat ’m back almost all the way to the Haradrim!”

“Ain’t you a green girl, Carling?” Evrain teased. “What you doin’ bein’ so proud of them blue folk fer?”

“Who cares blue or green? We’s all Dol Amroth!” Carling shot back.

At Éomer’s curious frown Duilan explained, leaning slightly forward so he could be heard over Carling and Evrain’s friendly bickering. “Green means land travelers, like us, you know, the farmers, army, caravaners and the like. Blue is fer them that go ‘cross the water, mostly the fishermen, sea merchants and the navy.”

Éomer nodded. It made sense but he had never heard of such a strange way to identify people.

“So you’re green folk,” Éomer said, trying the words on his tongue.

“Aye,” Alain nodded sagely.

“How do you tell the different people from one another?”

Duilan shrugged. “You don’, mostly, less you already know how they make a livin’.”

“‘Less they’re military,” Carling added, argument with Evrain forgotten.

“The navy wear blue and silver, lookin’ like pretty birds all dandied like that,” Evrain joined in, laughing. “Not like the army’s green and silver.”

“‘Sides,” Carling said, a mischievous twinkle in her brown eyes, “the green folk’s got the prettier mascot!”

Éomer’s brow rose. “The prettier mascot?”

Between Duilan and Evrain, Thíri rolled her eyes. She had yet to say a word since giving her name but she had watched the proceedings with apt attention and quiet amusement. Now she gave Carling an exasperated look that the older woman ignored. “Aye!” Carling laughed. “The princess herself is green folk through and through!”

Adrenaline spiked in Éomer’s veins. Picking up his tankard with the air of a man only mildly curious, he brought it halfway to his mouth before he  asked, “What is your princess like?”

His sight obscured by his tankard as he took a swig of ale, Éomer did not see the questioning glances cast by his dinner companions towards their young leader, nor did he see her minuscule shake of the head in response. By the time he returned his tankard to the wooden tabletop with a thunk, the Dol Amroth guardsfolk had schooled their features into wary curiosity.

“Why do you ask, friend?” Duilin, the oldest among them - age and battles written in lines and crevices across his face - asked, leaning into Éomer’s space, dark eyes bright. His manner, before so open and easy, had suddenly changed, a hardness coming to him, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. Eomer was beginning to understand Elfhelm’s remarks about Dol Amroth’s love for their princess.

“Easy, Duilin. I’m sure our new companion means no harm.”

The soft voice came from Thíri, and, as if her words were a spell, the tendrils of tension that had begun to build in the group like a storm preparing to break at his questions disappeared. Their expressions remained wary but Éomer’s impression of hackles rising faded.

Thíri smiled calmly at Éomer. “Forgive Duilin. He is very protective of our princess.”

“As are we all,” Carling said pointedly from beside Éomer.

Thíri shot the guardswoman an unreadable look. “As I was saying,” she continued, “our guest means the princess no harm, I’m sure. After all, it was his people who saved our princes and our Swan Knights in the battle for Minas Tirith. And Prince Imrahil considers our guest’s king a close friend.”

“Then how come he be asking?” demanded Evrain.

She turned to look the slightly older man in the eye. “Perhaps because we were the ones who brought her up,” she said smoothly. “Or perhaps he has been sent by his king.” To the table at large she added, “After all, it is only natural the king be curious of his prospective bride and who better to learn of her but from the uncensured eyes of her people?”

Every guardsman at the table blanched. “Bride?” Carling cried, her voice almost a shriek.

“You can’ be serious, lass,” old Duilin hissed.

Éomer for his part suddenly found his curiosity in the young guard captain increased tenfold. It was not known information that Imrahil had suggested Éomer marry his daughter. In fact, Imrahil had only made the offer that very morning. “And how does a guard captain newly arrived in Minas Tirith come by such knowledge?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

At his tone the guards around him bristled once again. Alain opened his mouth, expression angry, but before he could utter a sound Thíri once again diffused the tension. “I have a friend in the palace. She says the suggestion came from the princess herself.”

Éomer frowned. Now wasn’t that interesting. He had assumed, while made on the princess’ behalf, the proposal had been of Imrahil’s design. “And how good is your friend’s information?”

Thíri met his gaze with all the serenity of a mountain lake in autumn. “As the princess’ personal handmaiden I expect her information to be quite good.”

Éomer mulled that over. Before, his opposition to marriage had sprung from obstinance, then Imrahil had made his offer and distaste had joined obstinance. He had never liked the idea of an arranged marriage, though he knew they were common in Gondor, especially among the ruling class and the wealthy. He had liked even less the thought that the princess’ hand was being offered without her consent, though he knew Imrahil to be a good man and loving father. In light of the suggested arrangement being of the princess’ own doing Éomer found that he might need to reevaluate his position. It did not mean that he necessarily wanted or would marry the Princess of Dol Amroth, but perhaps he would not make so important a decision until he had at least met the lady first.

Around him, oblivious to his inner turmoil, the Dol Amroth guardsfolk were staring at Thíri as if she had grown a second head or declared her intention to begin a pilgrimage to Mordor.

“Her suggestion?” questioned Alain.

“Yes,” Thíri said. “ _Her suggestion_.”

“But-” Evrain started.

Thíri stood abruptly, Evrain and Duilan scrambling to push back their bench to give her room. “I believe I will turn in for the night,” she said clearly. “As for this discussion,” she cast her gaze around the table, “I do not believe this good man’s question was ever answered. Do tell him about our princess, what you really think, and I will see you all in the morning. Goodnight.” And with that, Thíri stepped away from the table and out from beneath the tent, stopping only to speak to a barmaid before disappearing into the night.

Éomer watched her go until she was out of sight then turned back to his companions. “Your captain is rather odd—and young,” he said.

Duilan shook his grizzled, gray head. “She ain’t our captain, boy.”

Alain grinned. “More like our charge.”

Éomer’s brow rose. “A merchant’s daughter?” he guessed. “And you’re her personal guards?”

Beside him Carling shrugged, matching Alain’s grin. “Something like that.”

* * *

Lothíriel waited until she had reached the relative safety of her own tent in the merchant camp before she allowed the panic she had been fighting since that lion of a Rohirrim had sat down at their table overtake her. She stared at her shaking hands, her breath coming hard and fast. Tears pricked her eyes even as she cast her mind for calmer, soothing thoughts, like the wind rustling across the plane or a ride along the beach with her beloved mare.

She had, in no way, been  prepared to face the King of Rohan - _Of all people!_ \- while enjoying a simple, quiet dinner with her personal guard. His appearance had been...shocking. She had only just recovered in time to stop Evrain—dear, overly friendly Evrain—from exposing her right then and there. Lothíriel, loathe as she was to obey proper court procedure, knew being introduced to the man who might one day be her husband by her guardsman while in the corner of a darkly lit tavern in the middle of a fairground, without the proper escort of her father or one of her brothers, was not the first impression she wanted to make. Worse, had she been discovered word would undoubtedly fly back to her father in the palace. He would then insist she take up a suite of rooms there which would completely defeat the purpose of Lothíriel arranging to reach Minas Tirith exactly three days before she was expected. She had planned to enjoy the fair for a time without all the trappings of her royal station and that would not be possible if her father, or anyone else from the palace for that matter, learned of her early arrival.

Lothíriel was unsure how long she stood at the center of her tent but eventually her thundering heart calmed, her breath evened to a steady in and out, and her hands ceased their shaking. Her guards were loyal, she reasoned, taking another deep breath, moving to the short table upon which sat her washbasin. Beside it was the pitcher of clear water she had requested from the quartermaster before setting off with her guardsmen for dinner. She poured a third of the water into her basin, the lamplight glinting off its surface.

“And it wasn’t as if they recognized King Éomer,” she whispered and splashed her face.

Valar bless Erchirion for granting her request of a sketch. And thank the Valar for Erchirion’s artistry. Though, Lothíriel blinked at her reflection in the looking glass hung above the washbasin, a simple sketch really did not do the king justice.

“At least, should he accept our offer, I will not fear being completely unattracted to my husband,” she muttered, remembering the private laments of her older noble friends. They had always told her to never, ever marry a man to whom she did not feel at least a slight attraction for what else could redeem him in the coming years? Then again, if Éomer-king had as bad a temper as they said…

 _No_ , Lothíriel decided, stepping away from the looking glass, _best not to dwell on the unknown_.

Her mind made up, Lothíriel began to prepare for bed, removing her travel clothes and slipping into an over-large linen shirt that had once belonged to her father before it became too old to mend, the embroidered white swan on a blue field on the chest long faded. While the shirt was not the most ladylike of bedclothes Lothíriel insisted on wearing it for sleeping when she travelled; a way to keep her family with her always.

Before laying on her cot, Lothíriel checked that her short-sword—not her best weapon but the easiest to wield upon being startled awake--was within easy reach. Thus assured, she dimmed the light of her bedside lamp and lay back upon her cot, but sleep would be a long time in coming.

She stared up at the shadowy apex of her tent. Why had Éomer-king not taken his evening meal in the palace? Why had he come to the fairgrounds? For all his eorod had taken residence on the Fields of Pelennor, the king and his counselors had rooms set aside for them in the palace. Lothíriel had seen to them herself on her last visit to Minas Tirith soon after the end of the War of the Ring. It had been her duty as the female head of the Stewards household to order the Rohan Suites, long shut in the absence of their dignitaries, be aired and kept ready for any visitors in the future.

She had not met Éomer-king on that visit, he having returned to Rohan not long before her arrival, but she had met his Chief Steward, Lord Elfhelm, and liked him immensely. He had not so much as blinked at her appearance in the Council Chamber and had treated her with the utmost respect when nobles of another nation might have sneered down his nose at her for assuming a woman’s words had weight with her princely father. Lothíriel wondered if all Rohan men were like that, if the king was like that.

Lothíriel tossed onto her side, squashing her pillow beneath her head. Well, she would find out soon enough. Her guards were intelligent. Just as Éomer sought to learn of her, they would take the measure of him.


End file.
